


The Lonely Vampire

by McSwell



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Anonymous Friendship, Coping Through Writing, F/M, HEA, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, No Teacher-Student Relationship, Noone is a vampire here, POV Severus Snape, Severus Snape Lives, Severus Snape Needs a Hug, Severus is not a vampire, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:21:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23988784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McSwell/pseuds/McSwell
Summary: By a quirk of fate, the private writing of Hermione Granger finds its way into the hands of Professor Severus Snape, courtesy of a charmed box. He of course cannot resist making a few corrections.This is only my second fic. It will be a little longer than my first one, probably somewhere around 10 chapters, although I am working off of a very rough outline so that is subject to change. I hope to update every week or so. Constructive criticism welcome.*Edit: It’s going to be way longer than 10 chapters. Maybe more like 30-40? I very much underestimated how many words it would take to tell this story. Rookie mistake! But I want to tell it right so bear with me.
Relationships: Hermione Granger & Severus Snape, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger/Severus Snape
Comments: 24
Kudos: 67





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Only my second fanfic so please leave feedback and constructive criticism. It is not currently finished but I hope to be updating every week or so.
> 
> I do not own any of the Potterverse, I just get to come here and play.

Hermione Granger had always loved books. Fiction or non-fiction, truth or tale, good day or bad day, sad story or happily ever after, there was nothing she loved more than to find herself lost in the world that could be found between the pages of a book. In those pages, she found a world different than her own, where, for just a few hours, she could imagine herself fitting in, really belonging, flawlessly and effortlessly slipping into a Hermione-size space that was meant for her. 

Hermione’s parents loved her. Without a doubt, she knew her parents loved her just the way she was. Although there were occurrences that they struggled to explain to themselves, they were careful to remain calm and reassuring to their only daughter. Actually, they had no idea the light that refused to go off at bedtime was her doing. As for her favourite stuffy, that never seemed to need washing, well, she was a very conscientious girl. All the odd occurrences around the Granger residence were similarly explained away, with a firm belief in logic and coincidence. 

As dentists, the Grangers were very scientifically minded and they, in turn, raised her to think and act practically and logically. As their daughter, she was also naturally inclined to process in that way. But there was a part of her that knew there was something more in the world, something more inside her, just waiting to wake up. To find out that she was a witch was like all of those hours spent in those imaginary worlds were worthwhile. Like her romantic mind had known all along and all those moments had been culminating to this moment of hope: there was a place for her. 

Her first visit to the wizarding world was with her parents to collect her school supplies. She and her parents had read, “So Your Child Is A Wizard (Or A Witch)” three times in preparation but it didn’t prevent them from feeling like they were drinking out of the proverbial firehose. 

As they wandered and explored various shops, one item especially caught Hermione’s attention in one of the junk shops. A beautiful, albeit worn, hand-tooled, leather box. It looked almost like a jewellery box, except the inside contained no inner compartments for jewellery and there was no mirror.

When the proprietor of the dusty junk shop noticed her fascination he came over to assist her and she was able to question him as to its purpose. 

“That’s a Lover’s Letterbox. Like a vanishing cabinet, except smaller, obviously. You put your message inside and latch it, like so, and your message is delivered to the other half of the set. Unfortunately, we only have this half of the set. Its mate was probably lost or destroyed. We obtained it from an estate sale. An old pureblood family that died out, I believe. Without its mate, it’s simply a pretty box.” 

The idea of lovers exchanging letters in secret captured her imagination and without hesitation, she plucked the charmed box from its place and carried it to where her parents were looking at a book entitled “7 Quick Flobberworm Recipes Even Your Children Will Love” with expressions of horrified fascination. When the little muggle family left the junk shop a quarter of an hour later the box was safely tucked away amongst her other belongings.


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constructive criticism and encouragement always welcome!

The first time he found a scroll in the little box on his mantle it was a surprise. The last time he had opened the box had been when cleaning out the attic at Spinners End. It had since sat empty in his living room at home and then later, here in his chambers, a visual reminder of one person who had loved him, no matter what. 

His mother had often touched the box running her fingers over the top lovingly, wistfully. It had never, to his knowledge, held anything. It had remained empty, although she would often open it to peer inside. Looking inside never seemed to fail to make her sad but that didn’t ever prevent her from doing it.

Despite her obviously bittersweet feelings, she kept it in plain sight atop her vanity, the only space outside the attic that remained hers. It wasn’t until she died that the box was relegated to the corner of the attic where the trappings of her formal life had been shuffled away. 

It was only, years later, when he found it again while looking through some of her old school things that he recognised it’s obvious magical nature. He was, honestly, rather shocked that she had dared to keep it where his father could see it, although he was also certain that Tobias would never have had an inkling that the box was anything more than what it appeared: a pretty box.

His was not a childhood that encouraged questions. Although he possessed a questioning mind and a natural, burning curiosity, he learned early to stifle questions, only asking them in the privacy of his own mind. Initially, he sought their answers in the things that were hidden away from his father in the attic. Later, those questions would come pouring out onto his school parchments and in the margins of his school texts. 

His answers were sought in the books of the Hogwarts library and in the contents of his cauldron; the restricted section and the book shops of Knockturn Ally became the safest place to ask his darkest questions, away from the uneasy glances of peers and teachers alike. Trial and error had been his teacher; painful experience had been his master. 

The last time he had opened the box it had been empty. He couldn’t be sure what had prompted him to open it tonight of all nights. He had had better nights, but he had also had far worse nights. The night Lily died comes to mind, for instance. And just about any Halloween thereafter. Christmases and birthdays that were spent alone and unacknowledged could have arguably also made that list. 

Why tonight, when Lily’s son had finally come to Hogwarts? He had been sorted into Gryffindor as if that was a surprise. As much as a secret part of Severus had hoped for him to be sorted into Slytherin, to keep him close, to keep him safe, he had known it would be for the best if he were to keep his distance. Essential, in fact, if Dumbledore was right about the Dark Lord’s inevitable return. 

The wisdom and necessity of this were only all the more personal when he clapped eyes on the face of James Potter, waiting for his sorting with bright, green eyes. Lily’s eyes. Fuck. 

Whatever the reason, whether he was feeling nostalgic, in need of pathetic, hollow hope, or most probably seeking to punish himself, he reached out to hold the box. Sitting in front of the fire, he caresses it’s the lid, just as he had seen his mother do and with one thumb he flipped the latch and opened it to look inside. 

Momentary bewilderment at the presence of a small scroll was quickly replaced by sceptical annoyance. Whoever had managed to breach his wards, or more probably, bribe the house-elf would soon rethink the wisdom doing so. The charmed box could hardly be at fault. It had never worked. No, this was obviously a setup. 

He began by casting several detection spells. They revealed no potions and only a few rather benign spells. The first, and most recently cast, was a basic preservation charm that students often cast to protect their finished essays from smudges and smears, but still allowed teachers to mark. The second and third he recognised as the industry standard extension charm that could be found on the parchment most commonly sold to students and similarly an ink manufacturer’s quick-drying charm. 

There was no dust and Severus had the distinct impression that the scroll had only just arrived. He hesitated, once more, and cast one more detection spell. Yes, as he suspected, the scroll had been both written and sealed shortly after dinner. With no other pursuable avenues of inquiry remaining, Severus slowly began unrolling the small scroll to gather more information. 

His first impression was that it was anything but a potions essay, although why a potions essay would be tucked away in his mother’s box before the first assignment had even been given he had no idea. Rolling his eyes at his own idiocy he unrolled the tiny parchment further to confirm that it was not, in fact, anything like an essay. For one thing, it was far too small. The tiny parchment was only about as wide as his hand, rolled tightly, like a secret. 

As he began to read, he realised that what he was reading was, in fact, a story. Child-like handwriting indicated either a muggleborn student, who had yet to become accustomed to writing with quills and parchment or a younger student, possibly both. The words were written in small, shaky handwriting that reminded him of a trembling whisper and while his first instinct was to immediately toss it in the fire the title of the piece caught his eye and arrested his attention. He froze and stared, feeling at first alarm and vulnerability, followed swiftly by rage and shame. Who presumed to write and deliver such a thing to him?

He was aware of his reputation. He had in fact cultivated it intentionally. Being the youngest teacher in Hogwarts’ recent history had necessitated caricaturing his own natural tendencies toward shyness, taciturnity and coldness. The defensive mechanisms that protected him first at home and then at school were augmented and served to further protect him from the impertinence and insolence of students too close to him in age to possess a natural regard and fear for his authority. That he was disliked and even despised by them had seemed to be incidental. He had never _not_ been disliked and despised. One thing he had never tolerated though was pity. 

Every detail of his life, from his abusive home to his school experiences with bullies to the time spying in the war to his years as a teacher had conspired to teach him to despise weakness of any kind in anyone, most especially himself. Slytherins, in general, are fiercely protective of their vulnerabilities. A vulnerability exposed is a liability. And as vulnerability is a weakness, pity then is only a precursor for scorn at best and extortion at worst.

His social isolation and status as a low key pariah was something he was accustomed to, and the resulting loneliness and despondency was something that he took care to occlude the hell out of in front of others. What the fuck? Had Potter’s arrival really shaken him so badly that a mere student had been able to slip past his defences? Bloody buggering hell.  
And now they had written a pathetically obvious allegory. “The Lonely Vampire”. Christ. All the subtlety of a bludger. A Gryffindor then. Right. 

Snape settled in with a glass of fire whiskey, his favourite self-inking red quill, and a cruel sneer prepared to eviscerate with the only weapon currently at his disposal: Words. Eventually, he would, of course, be able to rain down all manner of hell upon the student in question. And he had every intention of doing so. But until he had figured out exactly who they were he would content himself with figuratively shredding the shit out of their asinine writing. 

The story opened with a description of a character in the story who he could only assume would be either the ‘Lonely Vampire’s’ love interest or his first unlucky meal. Probably both. He snorted to himself at the description of her “silky blonde tresses” and “clear blue eyes”. Students were ever predictable. Any minute now there would be “heaving bosoms” and “glistening tears”.

Sneering with derision he began to rend the description asunder with his red pen, all the while combing for clues as to the writers’ identity. Probably some libidinous little second-year scrote. Adolescent boys were as prurient as they were cruel. It wouldn’t surprise him if this was half practical joke, half lewd daydream. 

In the following paragraphs, however, the writer quickly moved on to giving the character’s tragic backstory. Here Severus began to reevaluate. He just couldn’t picture any of the second year boys (or any other year either, really) giving the object of their pathetic wank fantasies a backstory that didn’t involve a thong. No… this was beginning to looking more and more like the work of a female student. 

The character, who had conveniently and tragically survived the horrible accident in her hometown that left her friendless and homeless, was rapidly beginning to take up quite a bit of parchment, leaving Severus bored and impatient. How much introduction does a love interest and/or meal need? 

Severus began to skim, looking only for errors and as he did he gathered that the character was homesick and missed her family terribly. Blah blah, the weight of her guilt, blah blah, the way the villagers in her new town were treating her, all apparently sub-optimal. In what was described as her first evening in the town she had become the victim of cruel gossip and nasty jokes. The story poignantly, if over-dramatically, described her guilt, isolation, and depression ad nauseam. Slashes of red across the page were hardly keeping him entertained at this point. 

Severus was in the middle of ranting in red about the implausibility of someone as attractive and pleasant as the character described being universally so disliked when something about the last paragraph piqued his attention and began to bother him. Rereading, once more, he was at first confused and then bewildered. Upon rereading a third time he all but confirmed it: the girl was not the love interest and/or meal to the ‘Lonely Vampire’. She was the ‘Lonely Vampire’.

After refilling his glass, Severus sat down again, prepared to reread what he had read, and then, without lifting his pen once, finished what had been written. The story ended with the first beams of sunrise beginning to filter through the young woman’s window whilst she was forced to lower and bolt the doors of her cellar. Alone and afraid that she always will be. 

Well, fuck. Although the page was filled with his red ink and he had sneered and scoffed any number of times Severus was not unmoved by the young author’s closing. He was loath to admit that the character’s experiences had pricked at his own feelings of isolation, guilt, and despondency. 

He sat back and finished the rest of his fire whiskey in one smoking gulp, hoping the burn would help to clear his head. What had he just read? Was this a student’s cruel prank or something else? Looking at it again and then at the box in which it had appeared Severus mulled over his options. 

Whether the scroll was written for his eyes or not was immaterial. If it was the product of a mistaken connection through the charmed box and if he ignored it, it was entirely possible that more of the same would continue to appear. If it was written for his eyes, ignoring it would do nothing to flush out the guilty party or parties. No. He would return the scroll to whence it came. But not, he thought with a malicious smirk, without a few minor alterations. Alterations that in either case will not fail to produce his desired results. 

A student’s ego was not an indestructible thing and a few choice insults, all the more painful because of their basis in the truth, would either severe the accidental connection or intimidate the hell out of an insolent brat. Either instance would serve his ends quite well. After he concluded his deliberations, Severus picked up his red-tipped quill and began to write.


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Con-crit welcome.

Over the following week, Severus conducted several tests and diagnostics on the charmed box. He was hesitant to engage the individual on the other side further at that time but he wanted to ascertain the box’s potential functionality. From what he was able to gather, the box should work as intended. He couldn’t account for its past lack of functionality, except to assume that the box had recently changed hands. Whoever owned it before was probably either ignorant of its purpose or unwilling to use it for its purpose. The question now was whether the person who had most recently used it had done so knowingly. If they had been ignorant they were not now. 

After some further thought, Severus concluded that an accidental connection was unlikely. His experiences in life had taught him that coincidences were rare things indeed. Furthermore, if something could conceivably be a trap, a slight, or an insult then it probably was. Fate was not often kind and people were even less often so. Consequently, he began to focus his attention on his second-year class. 

He paid special attention to the Gryffindors, given house politics, but did not exclude anyone from suspicion just yet.  
He was on the lookout, over the first few weeks of classes, for undue nervousness or other indications of guilt. Several second-year students caught his attention as potential troublemakers but none of them seemed to display the aptitude, temerity and the requisite amount of resentment to become more than a pool of increasingly improbable suspects. It was hard to imagine any of his remarkably stupid and unimaginative pupils managing to acquire and operate a rare magical object, not to mention author an original piece of writing, no matter how insipid. 

In the meantime, he assigned the usual homework assignments and looked forward to possibly identifying the culprit through their penmanship. He had cursed himself for failing to cast a doubling charm so that he had something to compare to. By the time it had occurred to him to do so the scroll had been gone. But he might be able to at least eliminate certain parties.

He had become increasingly restless, both by his lack of headway and his inability to concentrate. Not since his own days as a student, had he found himself at such a loss for control over his own emotions. Those days of constant hyper-awareness had left their indelible impression upon him and the presence of a veritable carbon copy of James fucking Potter wandering around Hogwarts drew those feelings to the surface like the poison in a festering wound. 

Harry Potter seemed sullen and insolent, almost from the first moment he walked into the classroom. Apparently he was like his father in more than appearances. Despite his mother's eyes, he seemed to have none of her trusting vivacity and all of his father’s arrogant disdain. There were occasions where Severus’ heart would startle at the sight of him, pounding in a conditioned response he thought he had long outgrown. Rage at his own weakness and a visceral loathing for its source would threaten to overpower him, and it took all of his occlumency skills to master the impulse to palm his wand to defend himself. 

The boy seemed to hate him on sight, and the eyes of his mother glared accusingly at Severus every time they met, causing his defences to rise and the walls of his occlumency to tremble. In every instance, his own weakness filled him with disgust and he could barely keep the tremble from his voice and hands. 

It had occurred to Severus that Potter fit the age criteria and the coincidence of his arrival with that of the scroll was hard to believe. He was also muggle raised so his handwriting could conceivably be a match. And while his aptitude was questionable his audacity was certainly equal to the occasion. He was certainly never wanting in cheek. 

Most significantly, he was almost certainly the only first-year who had a logical motive - but did he know it? Who could know what that dunderhead Hagrid has told him? The half-giant was notoriously loose-lipped and was, humiliatingly, aware of much of his… history with the boy’s parents. If Potter had become aware of the vendetta between his father and Severus, it was entirely possible that he had decided to continue it. As for the truly legitimate reason for Potter to hate him, well, it was almost certain he did not know of it. 

Severus found himself obsessing over the mystery of the scroll and its origin. To his private embarrassment, he also found himself ruminating on the story itself and the protagonist. While its execution had been sloppy and elementary there were compelling components that had seemed to burrow into his subconscious. While he knew that he was unlikely to receive another scroll he found himself contemplating not only it’s the author but its content. While the story had begun as amateurish by the end he was embarrassingly engrossed. It plagued his thoughts almost as much as the mystery of its origin and purpose. 

He had always been overly sensitive and romantic. It was something he learned from his mother, no doubt. His mother had a collection of classic romance novels she read to him over and over throughout his early childhood. It was thanks to her that he was liable to seek his escape from life in the pages of a book. 

A small shelf in their sitting room held the works of Jane Austen, the Brontë sisters, T. H. White, and Thomas Hardy, among other muggle authors. There were also a few books from her own childhood, of which his favourite was "The Tales of Beedle the Bard". She would indulge him occasionally with a fairy tale, but more often than not they found themselves absorbed in the tale of Jane Eyre and Mr Rochester or King Arthur. Before The Bad Years, when his father still worked at night and slept during the afternoons, his mother would let him cuddle with her on the sitting room sofa in the morning. There she would drink her brew and read aloud, conjuring pictures in the flames of their small fireplace. 

The stories were, of course, beyond his comprehension at that age. But then the stories were hardly the point. Hours, while his father worked, were hours when physical affection was liberal when his mother’s voice was calm and soothing. She would brush his hair and call him, ‘my darling Prince’. That time was magical, and not just because it was the only time magic was used. 

When his father worked, Severus was allowed to cry, show fear, and seek affection. At night, in his father’s absence, he was allowed to crawl into his mother’s lumpy worn bed and she would sing a lullaby and cast her Patronus to prance about the room until he had fallen asleep. She never forbid him from speaking of it but the wand was hidden away before his father returned from the mill and on rare nights when his father slept at home the room to the bedroom remained locked. By example, his mother impressed upon him a sense of secrecy. The magic and openness they shared in their private hours were limited to those times. 

His emotional sensitivity and flair for the dramatic was something Tobias had showed an irrational disgust for, especially in his son. It was something that he saw as ‘unnatural’ for a boy and his cruel dominion left no room for sentiment, creativity, or most especially magic. Severus was quick to learn that these parts of him were to be savoured only in the presence of his mother.

By the time he was 7 the mill had closed and their reading time was moved to the evenings when Tobias would disappear to the local pub. His mother would crawl into his bed with him and read by wand light, her voice low and steady. The dark resentment growing in his chest and the tears of fear and shame that pinched his throat could be forgotten as the story wrapped around him like her safe embrace. 

His romantic nature and deeply emotional inner self were something that he had learned to suppress, long before he studied occlumency. Nowadays occlumency simply made this task easier. Or it had, before the arrival of the Potter brat. Perhaps that is why he had become so enthralled by the story. It had become a convenient escape that was as familiar as his mother’s voice. 

His obsession was, no doubt, simply a way of distracting himself from both the arrival of Potter and the approaching anniversary of Lily’s death. This Halloween would be especially difficult as it would be the first that he would have to endure in the presence of her son. Feelings of guilt and anguish wrestled with his daily resentment and instinctive revulsion for the image of his nemesis. 

He found himself checking the box every evening before sitting down with his firewhiskey. Every night he felt like a fool at the sight of the empty box and yet he could not fight the compulsion to look. He began to wonder if the box was cursed, and was reminded of the way his mother returned to the box time and time again. He was on the verge of returning the box to Spinners End when on the third Friday, September 20th, he found what looked to be the same small scroll. With ill-concealed anticipation, he impatiently scanned it out of habit for curses and potions before picking it up and opening it. 

The story had been rewritten and amended. But what immediately arrested his attention was that beneath his notes in the margins the author had responded directly to his criticisms and comments! It almost resembled an already corrected essay handed back from a student with rebuttals to his grading! This student had more temerity than he previously thought! Putting that thought aside he first focused his attention on the changes that had been made to the work itself. 

The paragraph describing the character had been completely removed, but upon further reading, it seemed the author had toned down some of the more cliched turns of phrase and incorporated the characteristics into other parts of the story. Instead of reading immediately about her “windblown” and “glossy blonde locks of hair” it was mentioned while she brushed it out of her eyes in anxiety. It was now described as silky and ridiculous phrases like “locks of hair” had mercifully been removed altogether. He had to admit that the result was... not as entirely cloyingly banal as before. 

The absurd melodrama of her emotional state and the villages responses had also been softened, creating a much more relatable and believable scenario. And most surprisingly her character had seemed to grow something resembling a backbone. Instead of an entire chapter of wallowing, there was also coping, planning, and strategising for her success. Despite himself, Severus was impressed by the young author’s ability to accept his purposefully derisive criticism and implement appropriate changes to the character and story. 

After reading the section that had been so industriously edited Severus began to read the new content that had been added. In the new chapter, the ‘lonely vampire’ (he still cannot help but roll his eyes) was able to secure employment at the local tavern. Her hopes of establishing some friendly acquaintances in the community are stymied by her unreasonably disagreeable employer. While she was grateful for the chance to work she was also frustrated with his seeming unwillingness to be satisfied with anything she accomplishes. She couldn’t seem to do anything right for him, despite a variety of skills and an enthusiastic and thorough approach to her work. Even her coworkers seem to be irritated and displeased with her at work, leaving the vampire confused and more determined than ever to win their approval. 

Having read and marked the new material Severus went back to focus his attention more fully on the margins and what was written there. Next to each of his annotations, he observed a small tick that he assumed was meant to indicate that it had been taken under advisement but also, several had notes from the author responding to him. He paused as he came to the first of these:

_\- Perhaps you should change the title to the “Lonely Vampire and her Glossy Windblown Locks of Hair”? With insipid phrases like this and such a longwinded obsession with the character’s appearance it probably should have a place in the title. But then when a person lacks an actual personality and intelligence I suppose their appearance becomes all the more essential.  
\- Is the reverse true then? In your opinion does a strong personality and lots of intelligence make up for the fact that someone is not very pretty? _

He would have to be an idiot to fail to ascertain the pseudo innocence of the question. It was clearly a cruel taunt in regards to his own appearance, the implication that he would always be ugly despite his charisma and intelligence was obvious. He sneered at the clumsy attempt to debase him. Did they honestly believe that he, who had born with equanimity both the slices and stabs of the silver-tongued Slytherins and the brute attacks of the imbecilic Gryffindors throughout his youth, would crumble at a petty allusion to his ugliness? Amateur. They were not in Slytherin in any case.  
Moving on to the next exchange: 

_\- I never knew that vampires were technically classified as invertebrates. How interesting. Perhaps she needs a dose of Skele-Gro? It might enable her to grow a backbone.  
\- Sometimes being brave means ‘facing your fears and tears’. That’s what I’ve been taught anyway._

Severus was confused by the second response, which came across as purely sincere. No matter how he looked at it he could not interpret any malice in it. How strange... why would the author respond with sincerity and transparency to one of his jabs after responding maliciously only a few lines above? The inconsistency disturbed him and he had a difficulty clearing his mind to read on. Repeatedly throughout the work, this remained the pattern. That is, there was no discernible pattern. Some responses were almost painfully earnest and artless, while others seemed to have hidden insults or were sharply defensive. By the end of the document, he was quite thoroughly befuddled.  
Despite the cruel delivery of his criticisms and the in turns indignant, snide, catty, and defensive rebuttals, the core point he was trying to make in each one had been carefully applied to the story. What was this person playing at? He was no longer sure what their agenda was anymore, which made playing this game all the more dangerous. The last comment written in the margins was not a response but an author’s note: 

_\- A note to my anonymous editor, whoever you may be. Thank you for your criticism, I hope my changes meet with your approval. ~ TLV_

Severus went through the class lists, beginning with the second years and then, out of thoroughness, the remaining years. None of his students had initials that matched the author’s signature. Huffing in frustration he poured himself another glass of firewhiskey and it was only as he leaned back to savour its burn with his eyes closed and his head tipped back that he realised who the author was: The Lonely Vampire.


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry! I know I'm a day late! My daughter's first birthday was this past weekend so all my free creative time and energy went to taking and editing photos. Incidentally, she's fucking adorable. But now I have finally finished this, although my beta aka longsuffering supportive husband has not yet had a chance to look it over. As always please point out any mistakes and feel free to leave constructive criticism.

Over the next 6 weeks, Severus continued to conduct his investigation. He had withdrawn from the faculty social circle (well, ok, more than usual). Every time he was close to that imbecile, Quirrel he felt every hair on his body stand on end. The man himself was ludicrously harmless, and yet Severus could sense that there was something very very wrong with the man. Any time he attempted leglimency on the fool he was met with a disturbing void. If he didn’t know better he would think the dunderhead capable of occluding but anyone who couldn’t control their nerves enough to make it through a simple sentence without stuttering would be equally incapable of occluding, particularly to that degree. No, an occlumens Quarrel was certainly not. This was… something else. In any case, being around the man was absolutely insupportable. 

Not to mention the smell. What, had something crawled into his ridiculous headwear and died? The turban itself was not ridiculous. It was its place atop the head of the most pathetic excuse for a professional Defence expert that Severus had ever encountered. Both of the tasawwuf wizards that Severus had been privileged to study with while gaining his Potions Mastery had worn turbans. They had both been men who were powerful and esteemed masters in their fields. He had been in awe of some of the techniques and practices that the wali selectively shared with him and his master. To see a bumbling idiot wear what he associated with venerated artistry was absurd to the point of being profane. 

So instead Severus occupied his free time with the mystery that had fallen into his lap. He had become a bit obsessed, really. His next strategy involved comparing the copy he had made of the scroll with every potions essay from first-year through his NEWTS students. It was a painstaking process that took the better part of his weekend. None of them was a match. Could it be a student who did not take potions? Perhaps a student who had not qualified for the NEWTS level course. At this point, it occurred to him that it was not necessarily a student and in fact, it was not necessarily someone at Hogwarts. It was possible the writer was outside of Hogwarts. The charmed box did not, to his knowledge require proximity in order to function. He would need to approach this differently. He had to identify all of his assumptions and then test them one by one. 

Firstly, he assumed the writer was using the box versus manipulating a house elf or breaching his wards. After checking his wards he was certain they had not been breached. Following the first scroll, he had spoken to his house-elf and was fairly confident no other elves had been in his chambers. He had then discretely set up a monitoring ward, just in case. Based on the results of the ward he was certain no house elves had been involved with the box and also certain that his house-elf was attempting to discretely organize his sock drawer according to colour. Honestly, he hadn’t even known that a charm for that existed. It certainly explained why all of the socks he had gotten from Albus over the years kept winding up in the front of the drawer with his regular black socks, even though he regularly shoved them to the back. Anyway, in combination with seeing the box work himself, it was safe to continue to rely upon this assumption.

His second assumption had been that the scrolls were being written by a student at Hogwarts. Really this was two assumptions. The penmanship and writing materials used were facts in support of both of these assumptions but they could have been engineered by the writer for this exact purpose. He needed independent evidence that could not be detected or influenced by the writer. He toyed with the notion of using a tracking spell or potion. Nothing illegal or dark, just something to help him narrow down the suspect pool. 

The only problem was that all the tracking spells that were accurate were not appropriate for his use. There were several that would work but they were restricted for auror use. There was the one that was often used to locate something that was lost but it would not work unless he was quite close. Another could be used on a person but not on an object. And very few potions didn’t require his blood or other risky ingredients (he was not about to send a potion containing his own blood or other bits and pieces of himself out to an unknown correspondent no matter how curious he was). The remaining spells and potions were not terribly accurate or they required him to be in proximity, in other words, they were designed for someone to follow them at a distance. He couldn’t very well charm himself through the box. 

Instead, he settled upon creating a reverse proximity ward. This would also give him continuous information as to the scroll's location. Much like muggle echolocation, it would ping off of his ward and he would be able to sense roughly how far away the scroll was at any given time. It wouldn’t be terribly precise, but it would be enough to indicate whether the scroll remained in Hogwarts or if it were to leave.

He had thought of the possibility that one of the students was in possession of the box but was simply acting as courier to someone outside of the school. This could be particularly true if the culprit was from his own house. There were more than a few parents who he could very easily imagine concocting an elaborate scheme to entrap him or demoralize him somehow. The reverse proximity ward was, therefore, the best solution as it would not just tell him the original destination of the scroll but its location should it move after it was received. 

The third scroll arrived two weeks exactly after the second one had come on the 20th. He set his reverse proximity ward on the third scroll and watched for the results impatiently. It was anti-climatic because the results simply told him what he had suspected all along: that the scroll remained in Hogwarts for the entire two weeks until its return. This confirmed his assumption that the box, scroll, and letter were at Hogwarts and it supported the assumption that the writer was a student. He would have recognized the penmanship of one of the faculty and staff. 

Wait! Unless… they could be using a charmed quill! Of course! There was no way to test for that. The scroll itself would not reveal a charm on the quill. They weren’t rare but they were a bit expensive, making them something that you didn’t see often in students. Muggles didn’t usually think to buy them for their children and pureblood and half-blood families rarely needed them as they grew up using quills and ink. A penmanship charm was also infinitely easier and cheaper, making the quills a bit superfluous. If someone wanted to alter their penmanship for aesthetic reasons they could apply the charm to anything they had written anytime after they had written it. But still, it was worth keeping an eye out for one in classes and in the staff room. 

The scrolls continued to arrive in a timely scheduled manner. Every other Friday like clockwork Severus would find the ever-lengthening scroll, tightly rolled, in his mother’s box. It had become a bit of a weekend ritual and he found himself looking forward to them. He began to keep up with his marking a bit more so that anything left on Friday could be finished up quickly in the early evening. Then, after dinner and his rounds, he would sit down with a glass of fire whiskey, his red pen, and the scroll. 

On his second time reading through, (no need to be hasty, he would only get to do this once every other week) he would do his best to eviscerate the weaknesses in the plot, characters, technique, and style. He didn’t hold back and he found himself enjoying the banter that occasionally developed in the margins. It was a bit like sparring with a precocious child and yet he was somehow not subject to the intense annoyance that he usually experienced in the presence of a self-assertive child. Honestly, it had become a bit of a challenge to provoke a reaction. Like the Daily Prophet crossword, only better. Also, he enjoyed the story, not that he would ever admit it. But it had definitely become a guilty pleasure. 

He had begun to strongly suspect that he was hasty in his original assessment. This was obviously the work of an older student, not a younger student. Perhaps one of the older girls. That would explain the abysmal writing. They all seemed to read the same vapid romance novels with the stock witch and wizard on the front in an amorous embrace. She was clearly reading subpar literature, although to her credit there wasn’t a wizard with ‘brooding good looks’ that just needed the ‘pure love of a virtuous witch’. He should really just assign some appropriate reading for her. At the risk of making another hasty assumption, he thought he could be certain of the author’s gender. No male student would be caught dead reading the kind of low-quality romance that was clearly the basis for this… tripe. Probably. 

It was not that the story was a complete and utter failure. That’s what was frustrating for him… and what kept him ruminating on it and looking forward to more. There were moments of truly compelling character development. Moments that made him pause and reflect on his own ability to identify and to empathize. It was not something he would normally be willing or able to do. Perhaps because the character was fictional he was able to empathize more easily without the suspicion and defensiveness that would usually prevent such a response. 

The story had good bones if he was honest with himself. It was mostly a matter of technique, really. The plot had developed to include some intrigue and suspense, keeping it from becoming too maudlin. The vampire had continued to struggle under the weight of the suspicions of the community, her employer being the most suspicious. While she did her best to keep her true nature a secret, her employer clearly suspected something because he rarely let her out of his sight. There had been several fatal vampire attacks in the town since she had arrived, which created an atmosphere of fear, distrust, and animosity towards strangers, especially one who worked nights. Several citizens had formed a vigilante-style group who were intent on killing any vampires they could find, whether or not they were the culprit. 

The area had grown quite dangerous for her but she didn’t trust herself to travel elsewhere when her current location provided her with such reliable shelter and low-risk food source. The nearby sheep farm provided her with a blood source that was accessible, discrete, and most importantly, non-human. Severus rolled his eyes and sneered derisively at the portrayal of a vampire that was completely non-dangerous to humans. 

He was willing to suspend disbelief that the vampire had learned to control their thirst as vampires were known to be able to go long periods of time without drinking blood, although usually, this was in seclusion, not surrounded by prey. But he had to draw the line at the Veela-like beauty. And sparkling in the fucking sunshine? What was that? Why would a dark creature who is literally undead and living off of the blood of living things be more beautiful than she had been before she was bitten? 

Vampires were sickly and anaemic in appearance. They were literally cursed. The only reason they craved the blood of humans was because of their dark nature. It had nothing to do with a real hunger for it as nourishment. Like inferi, they were no longer living human beings. Unlike inferi, their soul was bound to their preserved, animated corpse until it was destroyed. They were neither living nor dead, thus the term undead. Drinking the blood of animals would do nothing to sate the appetites of this type of unfortunate creature. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Severus sighed and collected his thoughts. Leaning forward with a savouring sneer he prepared to enjoy himself once again at the author’s expense.

He hadn’t enjoyed this kind of interaction since his school days. It brought to mind memories of writing notes and trading barbs back and forth with Lily in their early school years. One of the things that had always drawn him to her was the way she would bite back with her own sharp wit. During the summer, afternoons were spent pouring over his mother’s old potions books, journals, and notes. By the time they would return to school they would be at least a full year ahead in their reading and theoretical grasp. Without a place to brew and no potions ingredients, not to mention the trace, they were rarely able to experience more than a theoretical exploration of the texts. But that never stopped them from debating and theorizing for hours. 

His mother’s notes were a thing of genius and beauty. He used to wonder why she never brewed when his father was not at home but he had since realized that she had probably not been able to afford the ingredients. He had only made the mistake of letting Lily look at the dark arts texts once. The dark tombs at the bottom of the trunk were something that he explored on his own after her troubled questions and the flicker of disappointment he had seen in her eyes. 

While he was never able to find her research journals and personal notes it was clear to Severus his mother had an equal or greater interest in research in this area. Without her notes, he was never able to discern what exactly she was working on but several of the books on blood magic and family curses were quite valuable and old. Tobias would have of course sold them if he could, but the trunk had been warded against him and a strong Notice-Me-Not and muggle repelling charms ensured that the books remained unmolested for Severus’ use. Not for the first time Severus wished he could discuss the dark books and spells with her. But he had never had the chance. Just one of many regrets. It seemed his whole life was made up of nothing but mistakes and regrets. 

Shaking his head at his own maudlin train of thought Severus scowled at the charmed box. It was Thursday afternoon, Halloween and he wished desperately for a distraction. Why could the damned scroll not come one day early? Then again there was no reason to believe he would be able to even sit and read it tonight. He was edgy and restless, as always. 

Every year on the anniversary of Lily’s death he experienced nervousness to the point of irritability (well, more than usual) and hyper-vigilance. It was as if his body refused to accept that nothing could be done to alter the event from eleven years ago. His heart pounded, his palms sweat, and he gripped his wand with a deathgrip in his hand. There was nothing to be done. It was far too late. He had done enough. But his cursed body demanded action, and his broken heart demanded penance, his tortured mind, for once, was helpless to rule them. 

He had snarled and snapped his way through his classes today, just barely avoiding outright hexing anyone. Thank Merlin he hadn’t had first years today. It would have been too much. As it was he was hoping to leave the feast early and hopefully avoid laying eyes on Potter altogether. With any luck, he would be back to his quarters and well into his cups by the time the day was over. Closing the box with a snap he swept from his quarters to make his way to the Great Hall for what would hopefully be a mercifully uneventful dinner.


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy! All the good stuff is probably J.K. Rowling's, while all the mistakes would definitely be mine. There would be a lot more of them if it weren't for the husband/back-scratcher/beta-reader/resident Slytherin. But if we missed one that you catch let us know! :)

The arrival of the scrolls became increasingly erratic as the term continued. Severus assumed it was in correlation with the heavy workload that the older students were experiencing. The sixth years were being prepared for the workload of their seventh year and the NEWTS students were being buried in revision materials that would comprise the culmination of their magical education thus far. Fifth years were preparing for their OWLS in a similar fashion, although on a smaller scale. Most of them were quite successful in suppressing that unpleasant knowledge for the time being, however. Severus would undoubtedly be spending his Christmas Holidays brewing Calming Draught, Draught of Peace, and the antidotes to the more commonly overdosed mind potions, Baruffio's Brain Elixir, Scintillation Solution, Wit-Sharpening Potions, Memory potions, and the like. The irony of children stupidly poisoning themselves with potions in order to cover up their utter ineptitude and pass his Potions Exams had never escaped him. For the first-year through fourth-year students exams would be the farthest thing from their minds at this point in the year. With Halloween come and gone the most exciting things on their horizons were the Hogsmead weekend in November and the Christmas Holidays. Hogsmead would of course not be available to the first and second years, a fact he knew that benefited many of his older Slytherins quite nicely. 

Severus was quite distracted and busy himself, so much so that he had had no time to further contemplate the mysterious author. Watching over the Potter boy had become a far more hands-on task than he had expected or hoped for. While James Potter had always been one for mischief and breaking the rules Severus had foolishly hoped that the son would be less inclined having been raised by the most rule-bound individual he had ever met. Unfortunately, for Severus, Dumbledore had already seen the boy out after hours sneaking around. While Dumbledore chose to simply keep an eye on the boy and ensure his safety, Severus chafed at his laissez-faire approach. “Sense of independence” his pasty white arse! If Potter thought he was entitled to wander around the school at all hours and disregard the rules that were in place for his safety (rules that arguably should apply more to him, not less so) how was Severus ever going to be able to keep up with him and keep him safe? Especially if the Headmaster insisted on giving him the blasted cloak of invisibility. 

Oh, yes, Dumbledores eyes had nearly twinkled out of his dotty old head at that. He could barely wait to make the little idiot invisible as well as reckless. Severus’ reaction had been unenthusiastic, to say the least. Giving the boy a sense of connection with his ‘heroic’ father so that he would identify with the light as soon as possible would have been a worthy goal to be sure if James Potter had been anything other than the contemptible, cowardly, bully that he was. There were any number of ways said goal could be accomplished with less risk and intrigue. Not to mention the thought of Dumbledore actively encouraging Lily’s son to follow in James Potter’s asinine adolescent footsteps caused Severus to see every shade of red in the spectrum. How Dumbledore expected him to sleep at night knowing Potter would soon have a license to commit accidental suicide by idiocy with the added benefit of being invisible was beyond him. Cerce how he hated his life sometimes... no, wait, that’s right, all the time. Escaping into fiction never looked so good. And despite his lack of free time and their irregularity, the mysterious scrolls had not let him down yet. 

The most recent scrolls had taken a bit more sinister turn to his surprise. Thus far the author had characterised conflicts as being rooted in misunderstanding, ignorance, and blind prejudice instead of malice. A naive perspective but not completely unexpected given its probable authorship. Students were often naive before leaving school. This tendency was especially evident in how the main character had navigated conflicts with her employer and the characterisation of the ill-tempered, suspicious wizard. The author characterised the man and his attitudes and conflicts in a fairly charitable light, suggesting that the character was not evil, simply misguided and misinformed. Instead of being a true in-depth character, he functioned more as a representative of the main characters’ harshest critics and obstacles in the larger community. Recently, however, he had seemed to transition from a part of the setting to a part of the larger plot, possibly even a villain. 

In the story, someone had been stalking the young vampire and she had run afoul of several jinxes, hexes, and suspicious accidents. Severus was personally quite unimpressed with both the wizard and the vampire. If he was attempting to off the vampire he certainly wasn’t very good at it was he? And for a ‘creature of the night’, she certainly had poor night vision. Her lack of basic observation and reasoning skills was nothing short of deplorable. For all the narrator practically beat the reader over the head with the man’s obvious villainy the vampire remained stupidly oblivious to the possible danger. A more incompetent villain he had yet to read of and he would not be surprised if the vampire began singing and befriending animals at some point in the story for all her sugary gullibility. He made sure to comment at length about these defects (although he was sure the Disney reference would go unappreciated unless the author was muggleborn). It was one of the only enjoyable nights he had in November, where he wasn’t brewing, correcting student essays, chasing delinquent children around the castle in the middle of the fucking night or, oh yes, his new favourite little task: babysitting Quirinus “Twat-Quaffle” Quirrell. 

In his infinite wisdom, the headmaster had ever so casually added the delight of monitoring this year’s resident fuckwit onto Severus’ ever-growing to-do list. After the ‘troll in the dungeons’ fiasco, it was more clear than ever that something did not add up. Dumbledore was hoping that the Philosophers Stone would lure the Dark Lord to Hogwarts so that he could be defeated while he was still weak. Now it seemed obvious that Quirrel was involved in some way. The troll had proved to be an adequate distraction and it had been lucky that Severus had acted on his suspicions and checked the third-floor corridor. Severus had suggested the possibility of the Imperio Curse but several covert scans had negated this possibility. The scans detected something very dark but nothing Severus and Dumbledore were familiar with. Thus his new and exciting nightlife. 

The sleepless nights and stress had been getting to him more and more. It seemed every day he felt older than the day before and when he looked in the mirror he could see the toll it was taking on him. He had begun to develop a restorative potion to replace the one he had been taking every day, as well as Dreamless Sleep for nights when he could afford to take it. But every day his appearance reminded him more of his mother those last years of her life, particularly that last summer. 

It was the summer after his first year but in his mind, it would always be the summer that she died. He had seen her growing older, weaker, sadder. But, in the way of a child who wholly trusts and depends upon an adult who has always been there for him, the reality of her mortality was a concept so foreign that it had honestly never occurred to him. She simply was: _Mum_.

It didn’t happen suddenly. But surely, steadily she declined. It was unrelenting. Inevitable. She had always seemed tired, fragile, old. Not elderly, just worn down. It was simply who she had always been, as long as he could remember. He didn’t even notice or question it until he had been gone for a whole school year. Returning, 12 years old, expecting her to be the same as she had always been. And being wrong.

He remembered getting off the train and feeling torn between regret and relief. He would miss Hogwarts. Despite the marauders’ harassment, it was the first safe place for his magic that he had ever experienced. It had been torture to be separated from Lily and watch her befriend other children. Children who had magic like him but who also had so much more in common with her and so much more to offer her. But to her credit, she had remained loyal to her first magical friend. Being at home again would mean he wouldn’t have to share her anymore. Their days of friendly rivalry and intellectual dickering were within sight once again. 

He had missed his mother, perhaps more than other boys his age had missed theirs. But he had been wise enough to keep it to himself to avoid the derision of his peers. Unfortunately, Sirius Black has witnessed his teary eyes and tight clinging embrace when leaving his mother at the platform in the autumn and had promptly and persistently dubbed him _Snivellus_. It had stuck.

As Head of House, Severus was now aware of how common it was for a first-year, even a boy, to miss home and shed a few tears for family members. This was particularly true of students from troubled homes. But at the time he had felt like the only one and the name had burned him with all the rage and shame that had been festering inside of him towards the biggest bully in his life: his father. Oh, Sirius Black was a vile a little shit. But as bad as he was, he had nothing on Tobias Snape. Not yet, anyway. To his credit, Tobias had never tried to kill him. Sirius Black could not say the same. 

Stepping off the train at the end of that first year, he was determined to contain any emotional demonstrations until well clear of Kings Cross. Drifting next to Lily while she flitted from one friend to another, giving and receiving hugs and exchanging promises to write, he scanned the crowd as eagerly as he dared. It was only when the platform had cleared a bit that he saw his mother standing to the side waiting for him. Her appearance alarmed and shocked him and the first leaden feelings of premonition filled his sinking stomach. He forgot Lily, the marauders, the train, Hogwarts, and even magic. The world outside of the two of them faded away as he slowly moved towards her. He felt a large, painful lump fill his throat for no reason he could name. An unnamed dread filled his feet with lead and the lump in his throat refused to subside at his gulp and swallow. 

She was at once the same and incontrovertibly different. Her black hair had not gone grey and coarse. Her skin had not become withered and thin. Her eyes were the same black-brown as they had always been and her slight frame was just as thin and weary-looking as before. But now he noticed that her hair hung more limply around her face than it had before. It seemed to have thinned and faded. The sharp intelligence in her eyes looked faded and worn. And though their colour remained the same the pools of emotion had become flat and dull. They were sunken and there were bags under them that seemed to attest to sleepless nights. Her olive-toned skin was sallow and her shoulders were slumped. 

Severus stood frozen before her, suddenly realising that they were the same height. It seemed wrong for him to be eye to eye with her and he wanted nothing more than to demand that things go back to the way they had been. His mother should not be so short, and he should not be too big to wrap his arms around her waist and press his face to her shoulder. 

She smiled weakly and reached out to take his hand. She squeezed it reassuringly and all at once he remembered his resolution to be stoic until leaving. He was ashamed of it but looking at her he recognised her look of expectation and challenge. And just like tucking his wand away before his father’s return he tucked away from the feelings of dread and insecurity and turned to lead her to where his trunk waited. 

Lily didn’t seem to notice a difference in either of them, cheerfully waving to him around her parents’ effusive greetings. She promised to call him later and he numbly nodded in her direction. His father was not present but his mother did not take out her wand to apply a feather-weight charm so together they lifted the heavy trunk onto the trolley she had acquired and they set off for home. 

Her strength continued to wane more and more every day. His instinct was to cling to her. He didn’t want to leave her side and although she did nothing to indicate anything was wrong he felt more sure every day that one day she would fade away like smoke. She encouraged him to go out and he spent those times with Lily. He didn’t share his concerns with her. He was too afraid to put into words what he feared, lest the words gave the fears the power to come true. In the end, she did not fade away like smoke. She simply sat down to rest and didn’t get back up. 

Tobias reacted predictably. He accepted the free meals and sympathies of the local parish until they had dwindled and then he returned to his drunken routine. Severus withdrew to the attic where her clothes and books and personal items had been neatly boxed up by the church ladies. Waiting until his father had left for the pub he would reverently open the box to smell her fading aroma and finger the pages of her favourite novels. He wished he could hear her voice once again, reading the familiar words in her low soothing tones. The first night without her he cast his first Patronis, grateful tears running down his face at the sight of her silver doe, prancing in the moonlight. 

Once Tobias’ routine returned to normal, so too did Severus’. He spent most of the day practising his magic with his mother’s wand to avoid the trace and studying her books from the attic. Lily would often join him in the afternoons and they would continue in the way they always had. 

Lily’s presence was like a balm on the open wound of his mother’s death. And she often also treated his more physical wounds that were the result of his father’s grief. There was no buffer between father and son now and Severus had discovered what a surly and mean drunk Tobias could be. While he had been known to slap his family around on occasion he had become more violent and volatile than ever. It made Severus question what had really been going on behind the warded bedroom door all these years. Severus had often wondered if Lily’s ambition to become a healer stemmed from their summers hiding and healing him from the drunken rages of Tobias Snape. 

Other than practising healing charms and brewing whenever they could Severus would sometimes cajole Lily into practising for DADA. While she flatly refused to crack open any of the rare dark texts of his mother’s, she could be convinced to half-heartedly practice casting shield charms and minor jinxes with him. While they both enjoyed potions equally and competed to best each other in it their interests diverged otherwise. While Lily was quite gifted in Charms, Severus was drawn to the dark arts and was quite good at DADA, having already had the advantage of his mother’s library. 

At the end of the summer, they had a camp out in her garden with her Dad’s tent. Her mum sent them out with torches, Marathon bars, packets of Golden Wonder crisps and tins of pop, and admonished them to get _some_ sleep. Taking turns with his mother’s wand he taught her to cast her first Patronus. Having done the reading he first showed her his and then coaxed and goaded her until she had achieved it herself. She was resistant at first, claiming that a NEWT level defence spell was too advanced for her. Slyly he pointed out that it was, in fact, a charm. 

“Perhaps I’m surpassing you in Charms now! Flitwick _will_ be disappointed.”

That was all it took. Grabbing the wand she squeezed her eyes closed tightly and breathed the incantation reverently, as she often did, seeming to savour the magic with her whole being. 

Tears stung his eyes at the sight of the familiar doe and his breath caught in his throat. For the past months, he had felt nothing but the abandonment and loneliness of his mother’s death, feeling like he was all alone in the world. Lying back in the little tent, with the light of Lily’s Patronus shining on her triumphant face he felt like his mother may have left but she had sent someone to watch over him. He felt her small hand reach over to squeeze him and for the first time, all summer he knew wasn’t alone any more. 

Through the Christmas Holiday Severus stayed warm in the icy dungeons, brewing for the infirmary and working on his personalized restorative draught. There were no gifts, or hugs, or smiles. No mistletoe or stolen kisses. No prancing Patronuses. He brewed and he contemplated his mother. Would she have lived longer if he could have brewed for her? Would she have wanted to? There was a part of him that had always wondered if perhaps she had simply given up on whatever she kept looking for in that little magic box and surrendered to the ghosts of her past. And he wondered how long he would live, clinging to the sins of his past and the promises he had made to the dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might have written this partially in the bath after a long day of Momming... and my husband may have caught me sniffling... you'll never know if that happened though... but it may have.


End file.
